


With Closing Eyes and Resting Head

by OccasionallyUndulyFormal



Series: Light and Gold [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:52:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyUndulyFormal/pseuds/OccasionallyUndulyFormal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, all the soul needs is love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Closing Eyes and Resting Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/gifts).



> Written for a prompt from Eva.

Mycroft looked down at the head lying in his lap and gave a sad smile. It had been a rough night at New Scotland Yard, and Gregory had come home a broken man. Mycroft had taken one look, lead Gregory up the stairs, helped him shower, and succinctly put him to bed. He intended to let Gregory sleep off the day’s hardships, but a softly spoke, “Mycroft,” stopped him in his tracks. He turned around, slipped under the voluminous covers, folding one leg under the over, and motioned for his exhausted partner to lay his head down.

 

A slight tremor was making its way through Gregory’s body as Mycroft’s hands worked their way through wet, silver hair. He pulled the covers more securely over Greg’s body, and caressed the tan skin lovingly. Mycroft had never known anyone like Greg before. It wasn’t about the sex with them. Which was a good thing, because had their relationship been centered around the sexual normative, Mycroft would have excused himself long ago. It was for moments like this. When one soul needed the irrefutable comfort that came from one body speaking to another.

 

The trembling slowly ceased, thanks to Mycroft’s warmth washing into Gregory’s body, soothing him, and helping him forget the horrors that police work can force upon the soul. Greg wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s thin ankle, feeling for the steady ‘tha-thump’ of Mycroft’s heartbeat, reassuring himself that _he_ was real. _He_ was alive. _He_ was here.

 

Tears steadily marched their way down Greg’s craggy face, seeping into Mycroft’s pajama-covered leg. Greg knew that he should get up, he should explain himself, but he was just so tired. He turned into the broad hands that were smoothing the tension out of his scalp and softly, relishing in the caress of his lover, with a wearisome sigh, started talking.

 

“She was 5. I mean, she barely had time to be a person yet, and she’s dead. And her mother? What kind of mother smothers her own child? And now her father’s got to bury his child at Christmas. Happy _fucking_ Christmas, yeah?”

 

He gripped Mycroft’s ankle more firmly, as though this was the one anchor holding him to this Earth, and without it, he would float into oblivion. Mycroft concentrated on soothing Gregory’s tension as it made itself known, pressing gently on the crown of Greg’s head, fingers working in steady circles towards the temples. Years of muscle memory lead him to the spots on Gregory’s head and neck that he knew carried most of Greg’s burden. Speaking tenderly, Mycroft tried to alleviate some of the pain.

 

“You have helped her Gregory. That little girl. And you have helped her father. You are… The best man I know. And I am sorry I cannot give you a better world.” Hands continued their rhythmic journey as Mycroft continued to speak, “You amaze me. Constantly. I never know whether to be more amazed at who you are or that you, miraculous as you are, are with me." Here Mycroft took a breath, swallowed, and continued, "I am thankful everyday I get to wake up with you beside me.”

 

Greg closed his eyes, and urged Mycroft to keep talking. The softly smoky voice that floated above his head grounded him and made him feel at home more than any material possessions ever could. It didn’t particularly matter _what_ it was Mycroft was saying now, as long as he kept talking. Greg could listen to him talk forever.

 

Mycroft smiled indulgently, reveling in the beauty of this man. His eyes were drawn to the sheen of the silver in his hair. His hands loved the feel of his sleep-warmed skin beneath them. He lifted one of Gregory’s hands and placed a soft kiss on the inner wrist. He could feel Gregory’s heartbeat beneath his lips. Steady. Strong. Just like Greg.

 

He moved Gregory so he was resting on Mycroft’s chest, Mycroft’s hands again finding themselves worshipping Gregory’s hair.

 

“Sleep. I’ll be right beside you when you wake…

“I love you.”

 

And with an exhaled, “Love you too, My’rft,” Mycroft Holmes resumed his monologue, and Gregory Lestrade finally surrendered to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Sleep' composed by Eric Whitacre.  
> Unbeta'd, UnBrit-Picked. Any mistakes are mine own.  
> Obviously, I own nothing.


End file.
